I awake to the prolonged screeching of brakes. I’m wedged a good deal farther between the rolls of canvas than I was when I fell asleep, and I’m disoriented. It takes me a second to figure out where I am.
The train shudders to a stop and exhales. Blackie, Bill, and Grady roll to their feet and drop wordlessly out the door. After they’re gone, Camel hobbles over. He leans down and pokes me.
“Come on, kid,” he says. “You gotta get out of here before the canvas men arrive. I’m gonna try to set you up with Crazy Joe this morning.”
“Crazy Joe?” I say, sitting up. My shins are itchy and my neck hurts like a son of a bitch.
“Head horse honcho,” says Camel. “Of baggage stock, that is. August don’t let him nowhere near the ring stock. Actually, it’s probably Marlena that don’t let him near, but it don’t make no difference. She won’t let you nowhere near, neither. With Crazy Joe at least you got a shot. We had a run of bad weather and muddy lots, and a bunch of his men got tired of working Chinese and moped off. Left him a bit short.”
“Why’s he called Crazy Joe?”
“Don’t rightly know,” says Camel. He digs inside his ear and inspects his findings. “Think he was in the Big House for a while but I don’t know why. Wouldn’t suggest you ask, neither.” He wipes his finger on his pants and ambles to the doorway.
“Well, come on then!” he says, looking back at me. “We don’t got all day!” He eases himself onto the edge and slides carefully to the gravel.
I give my shins one last desperate scratch, tie my shoes, and follow.
We are adjacent to a huge grassy lot. Beyond it are scattered brick buildings, backlit by the predawn glow. Hundreds of dirty, unshaven men pour from the train and surround it, like ants on candy, cursing and stretching and lighting cigarettes. Ramps and chutes clatter to the ground, and six-and eight-horse hitches materialize from nowhere, spread out on the dirt. Horse after horse appears, heavy bob-tailed Percherons that clomp down the ramps, snorting and blowing and already in harness. Men on either side hold the swinging doors close to the sides of the ramps, keeping the animals from getting too close to the edge.
A group of men marches toward us, heads down.
“Mornin’, Camel,” says the leader as he passes us and climbs into the car. The others clamber up behind him. They surround a bundle of canvas and heave it toward the entrance, grunting with effort. It moves about a foot and a half and lands in a cloud of dust.
“Morning, Will,” says Camel. “Say, got a smoke for an old man?”
“Sure.” The man straightens up and pats his shirt pockets. He digs into one and retrieves a bent cigarette. “It’s Bull Durham,” he says, leaning forward and holding it out. “Sorry.”
“Roll-your-own suits me fine,” says Camel. “Thanks, Will. Much obliged.”
Will jerks his thumb at me. “Who’s that?”
“A First of May. Name’s Jacob Jankowski.”
Will looks at me, and then turns and spits out the door. “How new?” he says, continuing to address Camel.
“Real new.”
“You got him on yet?”
“Nope.”
“Well, good luck to ya.” He tips his hat at me. “Don’t sleep too sound, kid, if you know what I mean.” He disappears into the interior.
“What does that mean?” I say, but Camel is walking away. I jog a little to catch up.
There are now hundreds of horses among the dirty men. At first glance the scene looks chaotic, but by the time Camel has lit his cigarette, several dozen teams are hitched and moving alongside the flat cars, pulling wagons toward the runs. As soon as a wagon’s front wheels hit the sloped wooden tracks, the man guiding its pole leaps out of the way. And it’s a good thing, too. The heavily loaded wagons come barreling down the runs and don’t stop until they’re a dozen feet away.
In the morning light I see what I couldn’t last night—the wagons are painted scarlet, with gold trim and sunburst wheels, each emblazoned with the name BENZINI BROS MOST SPECTACULAR SHOW ON EARTH. As soon as the wagons are hitched to teams, the Percherons lean into their harnesses and drag their heavy loads across the field.
“Watch out,” says Camel, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him. He braces his hat with his other hand, the lumpy cigarette clenched in his teeth.
Three men on horseback gallop past. They swerve and cross the length of the field, tour its perimeter, and then swing back around. The one in the lead turns his head from side to side, shrewdly assessing the ground. He holds both reins in one hand and with the other retrieves flagged darts from a leather pouch, flinging them into the earth.
“What’s he doing?” I ask.
“Laying out the lot,” says Camel. He comes to a stop in front of a stock car. “Joe! Hey, Joe!”
A head appears in the doorway.
“I got a First of May here. Fresh from the crate. Think you can use him?”